It is impossible to describe his joy. You would have to be a marionette to understand it. Almost fearing that it might be a dream he kept turning the egg in his hand, and smoothing it. Kissing it, he said; "And now, how shall I cook it? Shall I make an omelet? No, I think it would be better to poach it. Or maybe it would be more tasty scrambled. Or instead of cooking it I might drink it raw. No, after all I believe the nicest way will be to cook it in a saucepan."
No sooner said than done. Finding a little earthenware dish, he put it over a small brazier (a little portable stove much used in Italy with charcoal or wood shavings as fuel). In the dish, instead of butter he poured a little water. When the water began to steam, he broke the shell—tac—and held it over the steaming saucepan. Just as he was in the act of pouring out the egg, instead of the yolk there appeared a little chicken, very lively and polite. Making a beautiful bow, it said, "Many thanks, Mr. Pinocchio for saving me the trouble of breaking my own shell. Goodby! Be good. And do give my regards to the family."
